We Do Not Begin from Nothing
by Arcsaber
Summary: Tyrion and Sansa post-war. Spoilers for everything in print and on TV to date... plus a nod to a theory of my own about a certain prophecy from the books.


_For the attention of the High Septon and/or interim Council of the Faith:_

 _We, the undersigned, swear before the Seven that our marriage was never consummated, and request that said marriage be annulled and expunged with immediate effect._

Tyrion had signed it at and applied the Lannister seal in reddish wax; next to this he had written "Sansa of House Stark", and left a space.

 _Is this all?_ she thought _All it takes?_

Varys had brought it to her that morning with a tray of fruit and cakes, bidding her that she not open it until she was alone, but to be quick about it as Tyrion was leaving soon, and wanted to deliver it to the capital in person. Brienne had entered just then, so she had put the letter in her robe's pocket as Varys had excused himself, and Brienne joined her to break their fast.

She had looked terrible since returning from King's Landing, speaking very little, and only to her. Sansa knew grief when she saw it, and had wondered just what had gone on between her and Ser Jaime. Sansa herself had found him vain and shallow when she had known him, but a lot had happened since those days, and Brienne did not seem the type to swear oaths to vain and shallow men. Sansa had accepted the poor woman's pledge of fealty if only to give her somebody to serve; she had seemed so _lost_.

After eating almost nothing, she had risen from the table and said in a steady, but broken voice

"If you will excuse me, my lady, I must… get ready."

 _For the funeral, or to let him go?_

Sansa had not trusted herself to speak, so she had merely nodded. After Brienne had closed the door behind her, she had opened Varys's letter.

* * *

She tucked that letter into her robe as she reached Tyrion's door. She knew he would still be awake, even this late; she herself had not slept for days after her father's death, or her mother and Robb's. She remembered that grinding misery, hopelessness, when even simply lifting food to her mouth had seemed utterly futile.

A gust of chilling wind lapped at her ankles from under the door. _His room must face the coast_ … _I should have dressed more warmly_.

She raised her hand to the door, but paused – one of two things would happen if he let her in, and they each terrified her. But _not_ _knowing_ which would happen terrified her most. Only another blast of icy air made her rap on the door, and marshalled every ounce of her courage not to turn tail and run back to her room. An hour seemed to pass before she heard the bolt snap open.

"Sansa?"

She took in the purple under his eyes, the stubble, the paleness and _looseness_ of his skin. He was still dressed in his funeral clothes, though they were dry now. He stank of old rain. _He has been awake for_ years _, not days_. He blinked in surprise.

"What are you doing here at this hour?"

What _was_ she doing here at this hour?

"I need to speak with you, my l… Tyrion."

She shivered, which made him step aside and open the door wider to allow her in. She thanked the gods that he had a fire going - a large one, with a plentiful pile of timber. Her own had gone out as she dozed that evening. There was a chair in front of the fireplace, and a small table with scrolls and books and an inkwell. He dragged another chair from the larger dining table and gestured for her to sit, closing the door as she did. There were no candles, as they would have blown out. Only the fire lit the room, the moon hidden by storm clouds.

The large bay window did, indeed, face the coast, and she wondered how anyone could _ever_ sleep in here – the pulsing roar of the sea alone would have kept her awake before the whistling of the winter winds and rattle of the rain had any chance.

But he would not be sleeping tonight, she remembered.

"I am sorry about Jaime," she ventured, as he resumed his seat. A pathetic opening, but she had to start somewhere.

His eyes closed, and his head bowed. She had watched the procession earlier that day from her balcony, which overlooked the courtyard. The crowd's torches had guttered in the rain and wind, but had somehow remained alight. Tyrion had paid his sister's corpse little heed, abiding with his brother. As the bearers - Brienne among them, stricken, and barely concealing it - had hoisted Jaime's litter onto their shoulders, she could see, even through the near-squall, that Tyrion's face was crumpled in sorrow, his eyes streaming tears. He had not looked up at her as they passed from the courtyard to the tomb, nor anywhere else; she knew that nothing was real to him in that moment but his beloved Jaime's body.

"Thank you," he replied, without feeling, his gaze lost in the fire. He was living it all over again, she knew.

Brienne had told her what had happened soon after they had arrived here. Of her oath to Jaime to keep her safe. Her and Tyrion's attempt to spirit him from the Red Keep, half ashes by then, before the Unsullied had smashed the throne room's door to splinters. Cersei's frothing rage at seeing her hated _valanquar_ again - at the head of a conquering army, no less. Sansa could see the marks on Tyrion's throat where Cersei's hands had closed around it – how close had she come to killing him?

"It should have been me", he muttered, taking her from her reverie.

"What do you mean?" she asked, though she well knew.

"I was the one who hated the wretched cunt; he still loved her. In some twisted fashion, he still loved her. And because of me, he had to choke the life from her. And because of _that_ , he had to take his own. He killed her because he could not live with her, and himself because he could not live _without_ her."

He was speaking mostly to himself, now.

"Of all the ways I imagined killing her, strangling was my favourite. Watching her eyes fill with blood, hearing her curses die in her miserable stew hole, seeing her _understand_ what was happening… Maybe it was just as well - he was dead either way, by the queen's hand if not his own; he did kill her father. Perhaps it is fitting that he did it himself - only Jaime Lannister was good enough, and arrogant enough, to kill Jaime Lannister."

His hand moved, seemingly on its own, to the small table between them.

"Damn that castellan", he fumed, withdrawing it, "I would kill – him, happily – for a flagon of bad wine."

Brienne had also told her that Tyrion had killed his father, which had left her wondering why his presence at the Rock was being tolerated at all. The queen's own presence, most likely, and his prominent Hand's broach. Still, the castellan had managed to exact some petty retribution and denied Tyrion any wine. And maids, given the state of the room. And squires, given the state of Tyrion himself.

"How long are you staying? Varys said you were leaving soon."

"I leave tomorrow afternoon; the castellan was my father's man through and through, and I doubt even the queen will stay his hand much longer. I am ceding the Rock to… I cannot recall. Some distant cousin or other. He has the right name, that is all that matters. My father is gone, my brother, my uncle. My cousin Lancel is a pious worm who cannot inherit, and would likely never get a woman with child even if he _could_." He sounded as though he were grinning, but he was not. "I would not worry, though - no harm will befall you until you leave, not with Brienne at your side."

"What about you?" she asked. Without the Rock, he was entirely at the mercy of the queen's whims. She liked and respected him, Sansa knew, but still...

Now he smiled, but without humour.

"I am taking Harrenhal. I am already cursed as a kinslayer, another curse cannot harm me more. I will mostly be in King's Landing anyway. Besides, it is a useful reminder."

 _As though the Kingdoms_ needed _reminding that this queen has dragons_ …

"I was bent on revenging myself on the rest of my family while I was away, and I can think of no better way to piss on my father's grave than to have his precious name die, and with _me_. Indeed, were he alive, I do believe this would kill him again. But I will not crawl on the floor for his table scraps. The Rock can stand for the rest of time, or go up in flames the instant I leave. I have no care."

He turned to her.

"Sansa, why not tell me why you are here?"

 _Well, that was altogether too quick…_

* * *

"Why did you give this to me?" she asked, taking the folded letter from her robe.

"I would have thought that obvious. In Littlefinger's haste to buy the Boltons, and my leisurely drunken stupor, neither of us had occasion to end our union. We have been wed all along."

"No, I mean, why did you give it to _me_? I was told in the Vale that only one need apply for an annulment. You could have done it without me."

"Yes. But I thought you might appreciate making the decision for yourself. Can you remember the last time you did that?"

She pondered for a moment. "No. I cannot."

"Well, you will be making a great many decisions from now on, you might as well start with this. A choice between being the widow of a monster and being the _wife_ of one, admittedly, but a choice nonetheless."

 _Why does he call himself "monster"? He is not Ramsay Bolton!_

"And what of you?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you… marry again?"

He chuckled, genuinely amused this time. "Sansa, _if_ I ever marry again, it will be to the daughter of some dreary vassal the queen wants to elevate. Or threaten. Or insult. That is if I assent to it at all."

"Not… for love?"

His face sank, and he turned to the fire once more.

"I was truly loved by one in this world. Only one. Now he is gone, and I will never be loved again."

He said this with no sadness, as though it were as natural and right as the sunset, and it broke her heart. This man, who had stopped her beating by Joffrey and held out his hand to her, come to her on their wedding day and sworn never to hurt her, who had refused to bed her, or even _share_ a bed with her, threatened to geld a mad king - his own nephew - in a room of half a hundred people to spare her honour, and comforted her after her mother and brother's murder.

And sent Brienne to save her from Littlefinger at the end.

 _All this, and he tells me I can still walk away._

How many men were there like this in the world? Since they had parted, an endless parade of liars and rapers and murderers, passing her from pocket to pocket like a silver stag. She chanced a look at him. He seemed _twenty_ years older, not four, but she wagered with herself that fifteen of those years had come upon him since that night in the throne room. He was unshaven, his hair wild and matted… but she could not find ugliness any more. He spoke again, catching her staring.

"I will never ask you what happened to you, Sansa, but if it is even half as bad as I imagine, you will never forget. Ever. But there will come a day when it is not the first thing you think of when you wake, or the last before you fall asleep. Then, there will be other such days. And others.

"We are both broken, but you, at least, still have a chance at being whole again. Marry your handsome ser, have your beautiful children. When I leave here, you need never look upon my hideous face again, and when the High Septon's acknowledgment gets here, you will be armed with the proof that not only are you not wed to the Lannister imp, you never _were_."

Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them away. To hear him speak of himself this way was upsetting her, and he could not see it. "Thank you" she muttered, sliding him his letter across the table and making for the door.

Half of her wanted him to open at it, half wanted him not to. She tried to walk slowly and quickly at the same time. How he could not hear her heart from there was beyond her; it was drowning out the rain and sea in her own ears. She heard him rise from his own chair, and her trembling hand was on the door's latch when his voice reached her.

"You have not signed it."

* * *

She let out the shuddering breath she had not known she was holding, closing her eyes.

"Sansa?" He sounded puzzled.

She took her hand from the latch, and pushed the bolt instead.

"Sansa…"

 _You will have to look at him._ She turned. Still standing before the fire, his letter hanging limply from his hand, his brow furrowed. _He does not understand. Or does not_ believe. She returned to him, again, as slowly - and quickly - as she could. His face was still a mask of confusion.

Half amused, half frustrated, all afraid, she took the letter from him and dropped it into the fire. He made a start, as if to try to save it, but then seemed to realize it was only a letter; letters could be written again. They both watched as it curled and blackened.

"What are you doing?" he asked, with a wariness she did not like. He simply did not seem to grasp what was happening.

She knelt before him, put her face level with his, and found his eyes with her own. The fire lit his scar in flickering orange and yellow… Margaery had been right.

"Choosing" she answered, and kissed him, taking his jaw in her hand. It was their first since their wedding – that one had near-repulsed her, but this one…

He started to respond, but then cupped her face and pulled away.

" _Why?_ " he asked, his expression baffled and beseeching.

She tried not to let her surprise show – she had not thought he would ask. _Refusing an annulment offered by the self-confessed demon monkey? How could he_ not _ask why?_ A dozen half-formed thoughts sprang to her lips, but she managed not to open her mouth. She took a silent breath before answering him.

" _I_ _promise you one thing, my lady: I won't ever hurt you._ "

To her horror, he groaned and turned from her.

"Oh, Sansa… how you must have suffered to mistake common decency for chivalry."

He walked away, towards the window. She was losing him…

"Even if it _is_ mere decency, it is _not_ common," she called after him, standing. He turned to her, close to anger, now.

"All of the people that hurt you are dead, Sansa. _All_ of them. There is no reason to stay wedded to the only one who promised _not_ to! I know what it is you fear, but do you not understand? Names mean nothing, now; we are all low-borns under this queen. _All_ the houses will bend the knee. Some grudgingly, some clamouring for favour, but they will all kneel in the end, lest their keeps and their men be melted alike. Until the most clever and the most simpering rise from the tumult, a Tyrell is as good as a Fossoway. Men on their knees are all of a height."

"What are you saying?" She knew, of course.

"You will never be a coin again, never sold for an alliance. But you are still a beautiful woman from an old and powerful family..."

"Then… I can wed whomever I wish?"

"Yes! Lord, hedge knight. _Butcher…_ or _nobody_." He seemed pleased that she had taken the point.

"Then why not you?"

He pursed his lips, his eyes closing in frustration. She had trapped him, and he knew it - he had offered her the choice, and was now complaining at what she had chosen. Unless…

"Unless.. _you_ do not want _me._ "

This was something else she had not considered, but perhaps she _should_ have – had he not told her himself that he had not asked for their union? Had he not tried to turn his father down when he had commanded it? Had he not refused to bed her? Had he met some woman while off on his travels…?

"That is not it, Sansa."

Sheepish, and reluctant. Barely heard over the sea and rain. But he had said it out loud.

"Then, what?" she asked earnestly, walking toward him, her head tilting.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Did you not once dream of marrying some brave and beautiful knight?"

"Yes. And then I grew up, in the worst way possible, and found that the most beautiful people are _always_ the ugliest. I once dreamed of marrying _Joffrey_ , if you recall. _Joffrey_ , who beat me and tormented me, and had my father killed before my eyes. Ramsay Bolton, who beat and… _raped_ me, and made sure that Winterfell could never be my home again…"

He winced at this, but she carried on.

"And Littlefinger, who saw not me at all, but my mother."

"Yes," he muttered, unable to help himself, "you did the realm a great favour in killing _him_."

"I did not do it for the realm. Childish dreams are just that, and I am not a child any longer. Besides," she hesitated, "you are beautiful to _me_." And he was.

"But what of love, Sansa?" he half-whispered. It was his last objection, she knew. She thought for a moment.

"My mother and father were wed almost in a panic. She was promised to my father's brother, Brandon, but he died, and her father sought to keep an alliance with the Starks, so she was joined with my father. They grew to love each other more than any two I have ever known, and they began from nothing."

She knelt before him again. He _had_ to understand this.

"We do not begin from nothing, my lord." She said it as much with her eyes as with her mouth.

His gaze fell from hers, and he blinked at the ground.

"Forgive me, my lady. Nobody has ever spoken to me this way before."

She stood, stepped around him towards his unmade bed, and held out her hand. He only stared at it. The moment stretched and stretched, but she resisted the urge to speak first. _Please, Tyrion…_ please _… my courage will fail very soon._

"I cannot," he muttered, meeting her eyes, "I promised you." Her heart seemed to stop in her breast… until the corner of his mouth rose the barest bit. He was teasing her! She managed not to burst into laughter, but could not suppress a grin of her own.

"Not true, my lord. You promised not to _until I wanted you to_."

"Yes, I suppose…"

"I want you to." She let herself smile properly, and it spread further than she allowed for; she marvelled that her head did not split in two.

He returned it, and took her hand at last. They did not speak again till morning.


End file.
